Adrift in a Heated Sea

by T.C. Bertram

THIS college-educated woman,
this self-declared guru of morphology
that I am forced to call Doctor,
is convincing yokels and hayseeds that
global warming is a myth.

I want to put her
in a boat beneath a glacial cliff
and relish when she's
crushed by six tons of falling ice.
Bury her in New Orleans,
watch her casket rocket out of the ground;

build a shrine to her logic
on the edge of Miami Beach
and wonder where it floated off to
in ten years or less.
Spitefully write her name across the sky
in chlorofluorocarbons,

and move her 2.3 children
to the sun-bleached spot
beneath their mother's aerial epitaph;
observe the skin as it cancers and bleeds,
ruining the leather interiors
of their brand-new SUVs.

''It’s a hippie liberal conspiracy!''
she'll forever contend
under a mountain of sea-bound ice
without a hint of irony
or thoughtful reservation in her
muffled, slack-jawed voice.

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